


absolute bearing

by whatsarasays



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Game(s), Post-Resident Evil 3 Remake, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsarasays/pseuds/whatsarasays
Summary: “Jill,” Carlos' voice roused her from her half-sleeping state, “What’s next?”A lot was assumed with that question. That she knew where they were going, that she had a stepping-stone out of this wreckage, that when this helicopter landed, she would be their compass.It also implied that wherever she was going, he was, too.
Relationships: Carlos Oliveira/Jill Valentine
Comments: 28
Kudos: 153





	absolute bearing

“Jill,” Carlos’ voice roused her from her half-sleeping state, crackling through the aviation headset she had slipped on shortly after takeoff, “What’s next?”

A lot was assumed with that question. That she knew where they were going, that she had a stepping-stone out of this wreckage, that when this helicopter landed, she would be their compass. The only answer she had was the gnarled vial in her hand, and its angry, sharp edges pointed in every direction. She rolled it over in her palm, hoping it would needle toward that ‘next.’

Next was a sprawling thing that would have to be addressed in detail at some point. While worse was behind them, ahead didn’t hold promises. If anything, she felt like a flag had dropped, signaling the start of a marathon even though she hadn’t recovered from the initial sprint.

The question also implied that wherever she was going, he was, too. But they could argue about that later.

Jill nudged the headset mic closer to her mouth, “Umbrella won’t be thrilled we made it out. So, hospitals are out of the question since we’d have to give our names.”

“Military is also a no-go. Mikhail mentioned something about Umbrella working with the National Guard to set up checkpoints for survivors.”

“Right, no outside help then,” she sighed, letting her head knock back against the seat. That was fine. She was used to that. “Just set us down in the blast zone. We’ll figure it from there.”

“You got it, chief.”

They eventually found a clearing—a litter-ridden field off a state road with a long-haul trucker station that held the promise of hot water and soap. She lingered after a landing, too tired to move, limbs heavy weights. When the side-hatch of the chopper popped open, it revealed a haggard Carlos struggling to stand but mood no worse for wear. He smiled when he caught sight of her. “C’mon, let’s get you patched up.”

She held up a staying hand, “Hold on a second.”

His brow furrowed as she dug under the seat.

“Found this earlier,” she said, dragging out a large green duffle. She unzipped it and offered up its contents up to him with the closest she could get to a self-satisfied smirk, “This was Nicholai’s escape vehicle.”

Inside lay a treasure trove of gear—ammo, camping equipment, med-kit, and the best of all, a few wads of cash—all in Benjamins.

Carlos reached up to hang off the top of the doorframe, hip cocked, “Well, that was generous of him.”

A neurotic laugh bubbled out of her, and she tried to stifle it with the back of her wrist. Her spoils were a getaway bag from the man who cost her thousands of lives and some vaccine shrapnel. That was it. So much effort for so little gain. For a half-second, it was all too much. A little too overwhelming. She looked up to the ceiling of the fuselage and forced herself to swallow back the tail end of the laugh.

“Hey,” concerned, Carlos offered her a hand out, “You alright?”

Jill peered down at his hand. Gripping his forearm, she used him to climb down. He lifted the rucksack from her along the way, swinging it over his shoulder.

She never answered his question.

* * *

They hobbled more than walked to the rest stop. With Jill’s arm across his shoulder and his hand planted firmly at her waist, their shuffle was the result of mutual effort. She was sure they looked exactly like the living dead they had just escaped, staggering and purpled as they were. It was probably better they didn’t try to contact anyone outside the exclusion zone. They would have shot on sight.

The electricity at the trucker’s station had been knocked out by the EMP, but the water worked, which meant it was a passable enough place to shelter. Wariness colored the edges of their voices as they cased the building, shortening their sentences. They traded only necessary information—looks clear, bunks are here, showers are there, putting the guns next to this. She took refuge in the procedure of it. She was no stranger to protocol, having come to rely on it during her years on the force, and their scripted back-and-forth left her with a sense of order.

After cobbling together a reasonably defensible “camp” in the station’s bunk room, she felt security start to shimmer. But she stamped it out. Despite barring every door, safety was an illusion she refused to entertain. The problem was that she needed a shower. The mere thought of being stripped bare and vulnerable made her gut clench, but it was that or fucking sepsis. 

Jill gnawed on the inside of her mouth in frustration.

She stacked together a pile of toiletries from the duffle, and Carlos amusedly watched as she followed him into the men’s bathroom, dipping beneath his arm to enter when he opened the door. “You know,” he said as he shucked off his Kevlar vest, letting it collapse to the tile floor, “You could at least ask me out first.”

His quip was meant to buoy the mood, but it did little to bring a smile to her face. The sole light in the bathroom was a small high window which let in splices of hazy morning, casting shadows against the wall, making it difficult to see. It added to her unease. She shrugged out of her shoulder holster before adding it to his vest on the floor. “The women’s room doesn’t have showers,” she finally explained, unlatching her belt, “Evidently, only men can be truck drivers.”

She bent over to unlace her boots but immediately jerked back with a hoarse cry, arms shooting up to cradle her torso.

Ribs—right.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Carlos ducked to his knees, “Hold your horses.”

Unable to speak, she sharply nodded and let him at her boots. Unknotting the ties, he worked his way down her leg, loosening the leather, “Saw you drive off that roof. Your ribs have gotta be oatmeal.”

“‘Oatmeal’?” she said between a hiss of pain. 

Carlos hummed, “Up,” to indicate she should lift her foot. 

“Can’t do anything about it,” she said as she stabilized herself on his broad shoulders, using him as support as he wiggled her shoe off and then peeled away her sock, “They don’t even wrap ribs anymore. Risk of pneumonia, I think.”

“Might not be any good to wrap ’em,” he got started on her other foot, “but we can at least treat ’em some respect, yeah? Okay, this leg,” he said with a pat to her knee.

“I’m letting you help now, aren’t I?” Hell, she’d let him help for three days. Even come to rely on it. The question was whether that partnership would continue. Grabbing the back of his shirt once more, she complied with his request, allowing him to free her from the last of her footwear.

“Yup, and hating every second of it,” he tossed the final pieces of her effects in a pile.

“I don’t hate it.”

He stilled.

Then his eyes flicked up and his voice lowered, “No?”

She stared down at him reverent before her, as if he were some knight swearing fealty to a maiden of war. On his knees, calloused hands settled warm around her ankle, ready to receive whatever commissioning blade she would offer.

Her hold spooled tighter, and she felt him hitch a breath. 

But who was she to be followed?

A whole city lay in ruin at her back.

Releasing her grip, she looked away with a non-committal, “Thanks.”

A mixture of emotions flickered over his face. Whatever they were, they were lost in the shadows of the room. He sat back on his haunches with a nod. “Good to go. Now, shower-time,” he held up his gloved palms displaying how they were smeared with dusty dried blood from the guts of that _thing_ and God-knew-what else, “Because you are absolutely disgusting.”

“Hey,” she said, holding back a smile, “fuck you.”

He just let his head roll down and tiredly chuckled.

* * *

The water was scalding. Whatever the spray didn’t swirl down the drain, she made sure the heat would burn away. Going at herself with cheap soap, she felt for sloughing flesh, hunting for the black beginnings of necrosis. Any hint that the virus lived on. She scoured and scrubbed. But there was nothing—just her beaten body, littered with its well-earned lacerations and plum-bright bruises. 

Evidence of a fight more lost than won.

In the dim quiet of steam and heat, compulsive thoughts began to percolate. She closed her eyes tight against the stream and tried to block out the sudden onslaught. But with no distractions to pull her attention away, no immediate physical threat to face, they grew into klaxons.

It wasn’t her fault.

Or was it? What if it was? Why didn’t she sniff out Irons’ treachery sooner or risk leaving the city earlier? If she had, Brad wouldn’t have come for her. What if she hadn’t gotten on that train? Would those civilians be alive? Would Mikhail? And how could she have let herself get infected? They lost time because of her. So much time. Time that could have been spent getting the vaccine out of the city.

She slammed off the tap.

Bracing her arms against the shower wall, she willed her mind to cease its assault. Breathe, she reminded herself. That was what she had been taught. Inhale, count, exhale. Only so much was under her control. But there was so much in her control of which she had failed to make use.

Jill yanked the towel from the rod and pressed it hard into her eye sockets.

* * *

She struggled into the long, oversized t-shirt she had scavenged from the station’s lost-and-found before her shower, her wet hair leaving it soggy at the collar. Having left her clothes, undergarments included, to soak with detergent in the sink, she was hyper-aware of her hemline, huffing in frustration each time it started to ride. Another tick in the indignity parade.

Accepting that most of her legs would be on display, she padded into the chilly bunk room. With no electricity, the place had no heat, and so goosebumps crawled up her body. Two bottom beds had been made, and storage boxes stacked over the windows to block out the early October sun (and other dangers, too). Carlos’ work. A meager fortress from their fears.

Walking to one of the beds, she pulled off the blanket and wrapped it around her, hoping to abate the shiver threatening to make its way down her spine.

Everything fell quiet.

For a half-second, she expected the walls to shatter with a snarl of, “STARS.”

She jumped when the door clicked open.

Carlos was shirtless, toweling off his damp hair with one hand, mop of dark curls fluffier than usual from the static. In his other arm was nestled an assortment of food nicked from the storefront—granola bars, chips, cans of Coke. He let the towel fall slack around his shoulders before setting the stolen packages down on a small table.

Feeling her stare, he glanced up and had the decency to look apologetic, “Sorry, supercop, we're gonna have to do some law-bending if we want to eat.”

Her toes curled against the linoleum as she watched him. What did people say? Count your blessings? There were so few she didn’t even need all of her fingers to number them. But somehow, a mercenary was one. There was a shallow wound haloed by a dark bruise on his pectoral from the bullet she put through Nicholai but not him. 

Evidence that, perhaps, his admiration was not misplaced.

After all, he still called her ‘supercop.’

Carlos frowned with uncertainty at her silence.

“Everything okay?”

Jill near-marched across the room, pulled down a fistful of his towel, and crushed her mouth against his. The muffled noise she tore from his throat was a much-needed victory. Recovering from the shock of her sudden advance, Carlos quickly returned her fervor, deepening the kiss.

He was heated and pulsing and thrumming and _alive._

Proof that everything wasn’t for nothing. 

And she drank it in, teeth and tongue.

Reaching up to cradle her jaw, Carlos slowed her intensity into something more purposeful, guiding them down from reeling to intensional. Her blanket puddled to their feet as she let herself lean into the moment. When it lulled, they broke apart, foreheads pressed together.

“Jesus, Jill,” he panted, hands skimming down to rest on her hips, thumbs gently kneading into the bone, “Not complaining, but more warning next time?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, still sharing his air, “Kind of jumped you there.”

“Again, not complaining,” he said before hurriedly catching her up into another series of kisses.

She would have liked to have dragged him down then and there. Claim every vow he was willing to make, and extort every oath. But there was simply no adrenaline to spare. They were spent. She could feel the tremble in her muscles and the sag in his shoulders, though they stubbornly tried to fight it.

So she slipped from his arms, took him by the hand, and wordlessly pushed him to the mattress of one of the bunks. He laughed softly but followed without protest, trustful eyes catching and holding hers. The bed was too small for both of them, rickety sad thing that it was, but she tucked herself along his front anyway. Curling around her, his body formed a protective wall at her back.

As she lay in the stillness, eyes wide open, a certain centeredness settled over her.

A readiness to follow wherever that splintered vaccine pointed.

When he whispered, “What’s next?” against her neck, she didn’t argue.

**Author's Note:**

> Look who finally got around to finishing her fic. Why this took me three weeks, nobody knows.
> 
> The ineffable [lordbhreanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbhreanna/pseuds/lordbhreanna) is my not-so-secret weapon. And do you know whose stuff you should read? Hers.


End file.
